Mule Heart

We need a word for love that is now grief,

Which refuses to collect dust in the glare and

Lively clatter of the heart;

Love of what was, that still is

Because stillness is precisely the puzzle

For our grinding, mule hearts –

Heart like a catchment basin filling

To overflow then recede in accordance with the seasons –

Yet the heart is a walking vessel in search of rain –

Over and over we bolt from the discomfort of our

Agitated, unrestrained thirst that manages to

Eclipse us every time. Here it is, the skinned and meaty crux:

Love guides us intelligently, beyond our narrow rows of perception

To work the acres of our grief into mercy –

Stopping, of course, to chew on our words

And lap at the cold rainwater from last seasons storm.